


Pitter-Patter

by BlueShell



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, BokuAka Week, But the Tension Is Real, Day 03: Rain, Drowning, It's all a dream, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-09-07 06:52:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8787952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueShell/pseuds/BlueShell
Summary: The drops fall, one by one, growing in size and frequency until the whole court is being shaken by a downpour.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Pitter-Patter  
> Author/Authors: BlueShell athousandblueshells.tumblr.com  
> Day/Prompt: Day 03 – Rain   
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: Angst, someone dreaming about character death, mentions of drowning.  
> Side Pairings: None  
> Summary: The drops fall, one by one, growing in size and frequency until the whole court is being shaken by a downpour.
> 
> Note 01: And here I am again a few hours late. Jeez, this writing every day thing sure is tiring!
> 
> Note 02: I wrote angst because my last two fics were fluff and I thought I'd do well to bask in my secret angsty roots for a while. Sorry!

He sees the ball in the air, coming at him from a perfect set; he jumps, body drawn in an arch, arms in slow-motion. 

It’s when he realizes there’s something off about it. 

His hand connects to the ball, but he doesn’t hear the sound of that perfect smack, doesn’t feel his palm sting – everything is all rubbery, like the world is just slightly tilted in the wrong angle. His fingers brush past leather and the ball crashes into the net. 

From then on, everything goes wrong. His arms move too slowly, his legs feel like wood sticks barely glued to his hips. He can never seem to find the right time to jump. The balls go over his head, just past his reach, falling to the floor with loud thwacks that seem to resonate throughout the gym; the ones he reaches are always blocked, and he spikes spikes _spikes_ into hands and arms and faces that have grown long and menacing. He tries crosses and straights and there’s a hand, an one-touch – the ball returns in a vicious motion, between his arms, to the floor. 

He can fell his teammates staring at his back – their rancid hate floats like mist in the court, like their whispered words of “disappointment”, “sooner or later it always ends up like that”, “he could be a good player if it wasn’t for the moods”, and the eyes grow in the darkness until he can’t, can’t move anymore. 

“Please stop tossing to me today, Akaashi,” he says, because Akaashi is there by his side. 

Akaashi is there by his side, he notices now – though, of course: who else could have been sending those perfect arches for him to spike? And there’s that sigh, the one that means “I can’t believe we’re going through this again”, and there’s an anchor inside his chest pulling him _down._  

It starts to rain. 

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter. The drops fall, one by one, growing in size and frequency until the whole court is being shaken by a downpour. Wind comes in suddenly on the rain’s heels, shaking the net wildly like a flag, ripping off Fukuroudani’s banner from the stand. He watches paralyzed as the white cloth is drenched, plastered to the floor, the ink dissolving under the water until he can no longer see the kanji that have inspired him so much. 

The lights start to blink with the sound of sparks, the water is pooling around his feet – he’s ankle-deep in it – and the gym is thrown into abrupt darkness. The people in the stand and the people in the other team and his teammates all disappear; he turns and he’s alone in the court. Everyone left. 

“ _Bokuto-san!”_

Everyone but Akaashi. 

The water level is rising, and Akaashi looks scared – not scared like “Oh god Bokuto-san don’t sprint like that again” scared, or, “Sakusa’s spike just went right through” scared, but _scared_ , eyes wide and mouth open and face white from fear. He’s trying to hold himself on one of the volleyball posts, but the wind is pushing hard and he’s yelling but he can’t quite make his voice heard above the howl. 

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, and he’s trying to reach Akaashi, swimming against a current that grows stronger and stronger, and he can’t see – everything is dark, the net and the court seeming to stretch into infinite, Akaashi’s pale skin standing out in the black like a ghost. 

“ _Bokuto-saaaan!”_ Akaashi screeches, and he’s never known Akaashi could sound _terrified_ like that _._ His nose and the skin around his eyes are red and _oh god Akaashi is crying._ _“_ Bokuto-san, _please help me!”_

“AKAAAASHIIIII!” he tries to scream, as if screaming could be of any help, as if he could become someone _whole_ just by screaming very loud, as if he could stop himself from destroying everything. 

He sees Akaashi being jostled by the waves, until his head hits one of the posts with a crushing sound that cuts the air clearly over the storm and the water vortex. Akaashi’s arms go lax. Then he isn’t there anymore. 

“AKAAAAASHIIIII”, he screams. “AKAASHI, AKAASHI, AKAASHI, AKAASHI—” 

_“What is it_ , Bokuto-san?!” 

He opens his eyes. 

It’s already evening; the sky outside the bus window is dark blue and orange, the clouds all shaded by pink like someone painted them over the sky. The small light over their seats is on, and Akaashi is looking at him, raised eyebrows as he marks the page of the book he was reading. 

Koutarou wants to say something, maybe ask where he is. 

“Huhhhhhh,” he says instead. 

Akaashi sighs his patented “I don’t know why I still deal with you” sigh and rubs his forehead. “You were calling my name.” His eyes give him an once-over, that, in better lighting, would probably have Koutarou asking if he liked what he saw. “You were sleeping,” he concludes, and the crease between his eyebrows is replaced by a small smile that lifts only one of the corners of his mouth. 

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter. 

He doesn’t know where it’s coming from, but a wave of irrational fear surges inside Koutarou at that sound; he clutches Akaashi’s wrist with a vengeance – he sees his setter’s expression turn from irritation into soft concern all of a sudden. 

“Are you crying?” Akaashi asks in a gentle voice, and one of his long slender hands comes up to his face to catch the tears that are falling. 

Koutarou doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know why he’s crying. “Huh,” he smiles, embarrassed, cleaning his cheeks with the sleeve of his volleyball jersey. “Huh,” he repeats, “must’ve been one bad dream I had, right? Or maybe I was dreaming about onions. Do you think dreaming about onions makes you cry, Akaashi?”

“I don’t know,” Akaashi says, and he’s still looking a little bit worried. “Are you all right?”

“I – I don’t know. I think I am. I think.” Koutarou forces a brighter smile to come onto his face. “I tell you what, I’m just gonna sit here and sleep a little longer.” 

“Are you sure?” Akaashi is examining him with those sharp eyes, the ones that always seem to predict when he will break. 

“I am,” he says, because he has to stay strong. Can’t rely on Akaashi all the time. Has to be strong. “I’m all right.” 

And he releases Akaashi’s wrist, watches from the corner of his eyes as his setter turns again to his book. 

One of his hands, however, remains suspiciously close to Koutarou’s.

Staring at the bus ceiling, listening to the soft snores of his teammates, Koutarou wonders if he’ll ever be able to hold that hand and not be afraid of dragging Akaashi down with his rain.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> [My Tumblr!](athousandblueshells.tumblr.com)


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